


The Road to Midsomer Mycroft

by Tammany



Category: Midsomer Murders - All Media Types, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Cross-Series Madness, Gen, Implied Mystrade, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4748171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is fluff. That's all it is. I've been watching a LOT of British mystery shows this summer, and have found myself thinking that there's a type of British DI/DCI. He's sturdy, steady, wry, a bit sarky, over 40, going grey. The sense of familial relationship is a bit eerie. And then I got to Midsomer Murders, and just knew Tom Barnaby was related to our beloved Greg Lestrade...different setting, different lives, but shared DNA somewhere. And then John Barnaby showed up. And I thought about Rupert Graves' background in the West Counties (Somerset being very much part of the pastiche that makes up Midsomer...). And it all gelled: there's a vast Barnaby clan, of which Lestrade is part even if his mum did marry out of the family name. They're all related, and their family career path is to become brilliant, top-drawer DIs. </p><p>So much is made clear!</p><p>So. This story is just me indulging my own sense of humor about this little Ah-ha! realization. Hope you enjoy it, too. Just remember, it is in no way serious--just fluffy fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road to Midsomer Mycroft

“Greg! Over here!” John Barnaby stood and waved across the dim space of the Maid in Splendour.

Greg Lestrade waved back, but pointed to the counter with its big tap handles blazoned with the logos of local brews. When John nodded, and sat again, he pulled up and ordered a pint of Midsomer Abbas sweet. Once he had his drink in hand, he wove through the tavern to the round table in the front window, just barely managing to get his drink down before his cousins rose to pound him on the back in friendly greeting.

“Oi, watch it—I’ll have you up on charges for assault,” he told John, only to have Tom laugh and point out that they could as easily have him up for resisting arrest.

“Na, you can’t—not you, anyway,” Greg chuckled. “You’ve retired!” He said it much as he might have said “You’ve turned traitor.” He shook his head in gloom. “Next thing I’ll be calling it a day. That’ll leave only Tom here to uphold the family traditions.”

The three men settled into their chairs, chattering easily as they updated each other on their respective lives.

“Fishing in Ireland is even better than they say it is,” Tom assured his cousins. “Should have quit years ago. Joyce is happier than I’ve seen her in years.”

“Aye, well, she finally got her grandson,” John chimed in, and chuckled. “Since Cully didn’t stick with the family trade, we’ll have to have a go at convincing her boy to follow in our footsteps.”

“Leave the lad alone,” Tom protested. “Brainwash your own lass if you must, but leave my little nipper out of it.”

Greg laughed at both men. “And here I always felt a bit sorry for myself the ex and I never had any. Little did I know there was a Barnaby conspiracy in place plotting to turn the poor things into coppers. As lucky for them they never were born.”

The glance both other men shot him, though, wasn’t comforting—instead there was a gentle, deep pity in their eyes.

Lestrade glanced away, then, studying the old pub and the people in it. Midsomer, he thought, was a strange and private little kingdom, a thousand miles from London’s bustle and pressure. It seemed almost characteristic that he was sitting with two men who’d both managed happy marriages, and raised families, while serving as star detectives in one of the most dangerous, murder-torn bits of ground in all England. Odd as it seemed, Midsomer’s murder rate per capita made London’s look like small beer—and Tom and John were up to every trick.

Well…perhaps not every trick, he comforted himself. Between his own team and Sherlock the death tally seldom went much over three even with serial killers on his patch. John and Tom had been known to let it go as high as eleven before they concluded the business.

But, still, conclude it they did.

“How are things on your patch?” Tom asked, having brought back another round. “Now you’ve got that Sherlock alive again, have things picked up?”

“Spending more time on my work with MI5 and MI6,” Greg said, slowly. “That’s where the action seems to have shifted lately.” Then he ducked and fought down a blush, thinking of working with Mycroft.

Midsomer was a rural place—and more than a little behind the times. If he was quite sure Tom and John would never disown a gay child, he also knew they were quick enough with a joking comment—and he didn’t feel like dealing with joking comments about Mycroft. Instead he said, “Been forever since I had a pint of Midsomer Abbas sweet. Tastes wrong in London, somehow.”

“Good to be home, then?” John asked.

Greg shrugged, grinning. “Never really home to me,” he pointed out. “Just summers with Gran and Grampa. Still a London boy at heart.”

“Sure?” John asked. “I can make room for you if you want to leave the Big Smoke.”

“I’ll come here the day Sherlock gives up London cabbies and turns countryman,” Lestrade said, laughing.

“And the odds of that happening?” Tom asked, winking at John.

“I’d put a tenner against,” Greg said. “And I suspect I’d get a tenner back—too much like betting a sure thing to make money off it.”

Tom grinned, then, and said, “Tell you what—you bet your safe tenner, and I’ll match with ten in favor.”

“Of Sherlock ever turning country hick?” Greg shouted with laughter. “You’re on. Sucker bet…with a real bookie I’d only break even.”

“Don’t forget,” John chimed in, “If Sherlock turns country boy, you’ve got place here to fill.”

Greg laughed, never expecting it to come to anything.

Which was why, ten years later, he found himself warily asking Mycroft Holmes if he’d ever considered living in the country—and if so, what did he think of a little place in Midsomer Parva that was going for a song….


End file.
